


Going Nowhere

by Ishxallxgood



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drunk Will Graham, Episode: s03e08 The Great Red Dragon, Fresh Meat Friday, Introspection, M/M, Memory Palace, Missing Scene, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, Will misses Hannibal, someone give poor Molly a drink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 08:14:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14733269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishxallxgood/pseuds/Ishxallxgood
Summary: On the anniversary of Mizumono, Will allows himself to remember Hannibal, and the life and love they shared together.  One day a year Will loses himself to the bottom of a bottle and flings open all the doors of his memory palace, finding himself whole again.  For the next three hundred and sixty four days, he's going nowhere, and there's nowhere he'd rather be.Just a very introspective Will Graham fic about the events of Mizumono, Primavera, Secondo, Dolce and Digestivo.





	Going Nowhere

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song [Going Nowhere by Darren Criss](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lHGxU16sKdg)
> 
> I highly suggest listening to the song. :)

The bottle slips through slack fingers, jolting Will awake when the glass resounds against the kitchen tiles.  Rubbing at his eyes, he attempts a grab at it, but instead ends up sprawled on the floor. “Fuck,” he moans, righting the bottle.  Frowning when he realizes that it was empty before it fell.

How had it gotten this bad?

Pushing himself up, he closes his eyes as he drops his head back against the cabinets.  He really should get up and dispose of the bottle. Perhaps crawl up the stairs and back into bed with his wife.

 _His wife_ . _Molly_.

He lets out a scoff at that thought, fingers gently caressing the scar on his abdomen as he tries to get his head to stop spinning.

Fucking Hannibal.

Fucking October.

He knew this day was coming.  Ever since the temperature began to drop and the leaves began to change.  It was inevitable, like a storm scheduled to come once a year. He didn’t even try to fight it this year, Molly didn’t even try to fight it.

She had tried so hard to understand that first October.  She had pushed and pried, and got nothing in return. The more she tried, the more he retreated. They had argued and fought, and still he refused to let her close, opting instead to drown his memories in a bottle of cheap whiskey.  He apologized the next day, and she had forgiven him. She reluctantly stopped asking him questions and, for the next three hundred and sixty four days, everything had gone back to normal.

He wanted to tell her that next October, last October, when the bitter sting of longing and betrayal crept up again.

He couldn’t though.  

There were just some hurts that would never heal. Some wounds that would always fester.  Some names that he simply couldn’t voice.

Molly cried as he escaped down another bottle of whiskey.  She begged him once again to help her understand. That she simply just wanted to help.

But he couldn’t help her understand though.  He couldn’t tell her about Hannibal. About Abigail.  About the scars he bears. About the hurt he still harbors.

So he doesn’t.

He chose instead to bury those things, deep beneath the roaring stream.  Beneath the gentle caress of the wind and the barking of his dogs. Deep down inside his heart, inside his mind, and as far away from his current reality as he could.  So that he could move forward with his life.

And for the most part, he is successful.  

He forgets.

Time moves forward.  

And yet.  

He knows.  

He knows he’s going nowhere.  

Three years now, and Molly’s warmth still doesn’t quite penetrate the innermost confines of his heart.  It does little to chase away the chill of October, and it certainly cannot reach that one place locked away deep inside.

He longs for some sort of respite from his pain.  For that October, when _they_ were closer, and it was _love_ that they were in.  He kicks at the empty bottle which barely provided the relief he had sought.  Instead the whiskey bleeds through his veins and burns him from the inside out.  Rendering him numb to everything. To the emptiness. To the ghosts of his past.

Hannibal’s voice still lingers in his mind.  His shadow lurking in dark corners. God if he were a stronger man he’d understand that he’s alone when he looks in the mirror.  He had said his goodbyes, and yet, when he closes his eyes, Hannibal is _still_ there.

Hannibal.  

His Hannibal.

Will sighs and against better reason, he closes his eyes and continues to trail his fingers lightly along the raised edge of his scar. He can still feel the biting cold of that knife as it cut through his flesh.  The warm press of Hannibal’s hand against his nape pulling him close. The encompassing smell of rain and blood and _Hannibal_.  Will lets out a shuddering breath and succumbs to the embrace which was held for a minute and lasted a lifetime.

Tears spill from his eyes as he follows the weight of his body slipping from Hannibal’s arms.  Surrounded by memories of blood and loss he curls his arms around his scar as he chokes back a sob.

Abigail.

Hannibal.

The family he had crafted. Ripped away. Bled dry.

For the longest time he believed that the pain had stemmed from the loss Abigail, _again_ . But time had taught him that it simply wasn't the case. Sure her death had left him with a sense of loss, longing. And yet, it was nothing like the emptiness that _Hannibal_ had left behind.

Hannibal _left_ him.   _Abandoned_ him.

And yet.

He had firmly believed that he could bridge that gap.  That he could build a boat and cross the Atlantic to offer up his forgiveness.  It was such a simple act. It was what they had needed. And he had been ready to finally let go of Abigail’s ghost.  To forgive Hannibal for his _smile_.  To make amends and accept his gift.

The rejection he faced in Palermo stung more than the slide of the knife.  Hurt more than the press of weak hands against Abigail’s neck. Expectations were shattered.  He had hoped it would have been enough. But it wasn’t. _He_ wasn’t.

The time spent in Lithuania and the Lecter Estate had opened Will’s eyes.  It was there that he finally understood. It was there that it became clear to him that they were conjoined.  Alike. One in the same. Nakama, Chiyoh had called them, but it was something so much deeper than that. Something he finally understood when creating his firefly tableau.

It's a little bit funny. Chiyoh had spoken of means of influence other than violence. She had alluded to the fact that Will could bind Hannibal to him through his affections.  Affections Will had been so sure of, affections that Will manipulated to entwine them before the cut.

And yet.  

Perhaps he was wrong.  Perhaps he had merely projected his own feelings upon Hannibal.  Perhaps Hannibal had never reciprocate his love. It was all a mess.  A fog of disjointed memories. Of joy and pain. Laughter and heartbreak. Blood and bone.

Will laughs bitterly as he pulls himself from his mind palace and comes to a stand. He stumbles his way into the living room, the pack on his heels as he collapses onto the couch.  Dogs lick sympathetically at his hand and he groans as his mind slips back to Florence. To the Uffizi. To the Primavera.

Basked in a soft light, a warmth seeps back into his bones.  He hears the scratching of charcoal on paper as he approaches and he doesn’t have to look to know what it is Hannibal is sketching.  Settling down next to Hannibal, he keeps his eyes trained onto the painting before him. He can not bear to look.

They sit in silence, long and comforting, and then those words echo in the room. _“If I saw you everyday forever, Will, I would remember this time.”_

Words he tried to ignore, resound in his mind and he cannot fight the whimper that escapes him.  There was a moment in time when the dust had settled around them. A moment in time when they had been freed from fate and circumstance.  From _forgiveness_.

If he could, he would live in that moment forever.  He would just sit back, relax, and replay it every night.  And sure, he might stay too long, and overplay that song, but it wasn’t like he was going anywhere anyway.  If he were to be honest with himself, he’d be inclined to agree that he was going nowhere, and that there was nowhere he’d rather be.

The scratching of the charcoal stops and Will turns to regard Hannibal. There are still so many things left unsaid between them.  So many truths still buried in lies. A part of him wonders if Hannibal thinks of them the way he does, if pre-September ever was a way they were.

If only one could reverse time and bring the teacup back together.

* * *

Will wakes to the cacophony of seven dogs and the slamming of the front door. He doesn't bother opening his eyes and chooses instead to throw an arm across his face. Acutely aware of the fact that Molly is standing before him, most likely holding a glass of water and wearing a sympathetic smile.

He tries his best to ignore her, to cling to the warmth of the Uffizi, the sound of Hannibal's voice. But without the haze of cheap whiskey, it’s hard to keep pretending.  Especially when Molly is standing so close, saturating his senses with her presence. Reluctantly, he drags a hand across his face and opens his eyes.

“Morning,” he croaks.

“Good morning, hot shot,” Molly says as she pushes the glass into his hands. “I'm going to take Wally down to the river for a bit.  Try to catch dinner and give you some peace and quiet.”

Pushing himself up, he drains the glass and smiles weakly up at her. “Thank you.”

She gives his shoulder a light squeeze as she takes the glass from him. Her eyes speak volumes, but he is grateful for her silence, for her acceptance, despite her reluctance. He is grateful that she is everything that monster inside him is not.

Reaching out, he grabs her waist and pulls her closer to him. His arms wrap around her as he buries his face in her soft sweater and allows her scent to permeate him. He reminds himself that this is what he chose. That this is the life he wants. An effortless love. A quiet peace. A simple existence.

He is tired. So very tired. Of being broken. Of running from his demons. Of chasing a monster who could never love him back.

So instead he chooses to go nowhere. To remain stagnant in this bittersweet life. To seek temporary solace in the arms of a woman who loves him. Who loves the man and is ignorant of the monster.

And yet.

There is that scratching in the back of his mind, and he would he lying to himself if he said he didn't look forward to the fall. To October. To the one day of the year he allows himself to remember, to bask.

Molly presses a kiss to the top of his head and gently pulls away. There is a soft pity in her eyes and he feels as if she could see into his mind. Feel the warmth Hannibal exudes within him and hear those words spoken to him so very long ago. Words wrapped in tenderness and love. Words which have sustained him for so many lonely years. Words that even the bitter sting of rejection could not erase.

_If I saw you everyday forever, Will, I would remember this time._

Will leans back and closes his eyes as the door is pulled shut behind Molly.  He wanders back to the Uffizi and settles back down next to Hannibal. Fighting the urge to lay his head down on Hannibal's lap and lose himself in that moment.

He is at peace here.  Basking in the warmth of this one memory.

And yet.

He can’t allow himself to miss Hannibal.  He can't afford to. Hannibal is toxic. Hannibal has the capability to make him embrace his inner darkness and unleash his demons. Hannibal has the ability to make him feel complete and whole and _alive_ . With Hannibal their souls are conjoined and bound together with a thread so strong not even fate could sever it. With Hannibal he is _loved_ and _known_.

What a goddamn fool he had been to believe such lies. To believe that someone like Hannibal could have possibly loved him, been _in love_ with him. He had wanted to believe it though.  He had desperately clung to that belief, even as the bone saw impacted with his skull.  He wanted to believe in the regret he saw in Hannibal’s eyes. To have died knowing he was loved.

He would have willingly sacrificed it all, if it had actually meant something to Hannibal. A part of him still wants to believe that it had. Even though the better part of him knows it was all a lie. The very fact that Hannibal had attempted such a permanent separation makes him sick to his stomach.

Bile rises in his throat and he forces himself off the couch. With a growl he grabs the closest book and throws it across the room. A bitter laugh escaping him when he catches the title. _The Song of Achilles_ .  The laugh quickly turns to a sob as he drops to the ground and curls in on himself. Once upon a time he had truly believed that he was the Patroclus to Hannibal’s Achilles. That Hannibal would have destroyed Heaven and Earth to ensure them a place, _together_. But Hannibal had been eager to forfeit his life. Rather than lend Patroclus his armor, Hannibal instead chose to cut Patroclus from his life. Godforbid Hector had a chance to do so first.  So Will in turn chose to cut the cancer that was Hannibal Lecter from his life.

The dogs circle around him, letting out low whines as Winston butts his leg and Buster leaps up onto him, urging him to get up.  Reluctantly he does. He comes to a stand and scrambles his way into the bathroom, washing out the taste of stale whiskey and regret from his mouth.

Time slips in and out of focus around him, the soft cadence of Hannibal’s voice surrounds him and suddenly the cabin is too warm, too stifling, too _wrong_.  Whistling for the pack to follow, he grabs his jacket and pushes his way outside, breathing in the brisk October air. It's cold for this time of year, and the night had brought with it a fresh blanket of snow.  Pulling a beanie over his head he tries to blot out the images of Hannibal falling down to his knees in surrender.

He tries to not think of that notebook hidden away in his underwear drawer.  Of teacups and time and the rules of disorder. _The teacup is broken_. No amount of formulas and physics will enable it to gather itself back together again, not even in his mind.  He had said his goodbyes that night and meant it, firm in his conviction that he would not miss Hannibal.

And yet.

He can’t fight the pull of October.  The need to remember one day a year. The need to see Hannibal’s face, to hear his voice, and feel his warmth.  To remind himself of who he truly is. One day of indulgence, to get him through the year. The press of Winston’s nose against his hand draws his attention back to the present.  

Will smiles down at Winston and runs a hand through his fur, carefully tucking those precious memories back into the forbidden rooms of his mind palace.  Stepping down into the snow, Will turns the locks in his mind and loses the keys for yet another year. He chooses instead to surround himself with his pack.  It’s cathartic, being with his dogs, his faithful companions who accept him the way he is. They never question his actions and their loyalties never falter.

Will pulls open the door to the shed and settles into his workspace, assessing the projects he had been working on.  The motors are done, flushed and ready for storage until the warmer weather returns. There is not much left to do, except maybe to work on the lock on the shed door.  Something the had been putting off for months now, because it was such a small, insignificant project, but perhaps even insignificant locks should be reinforced from time to time.

Pulling the toolbag off the shelf, he grabs a screwdriver from it before dropping it onto the cold ground just outside the shed.  He loses himself in the tightening of the latch when the sound of a car approaching draws his attention and he stills. Will fights the urge to roll his eyes as Jack exits the car and regards him, stoic and still, with only the clenching and unclenching of his left fist by his side betraying his unrest.

Seconds slip into minutes as the two men stare each other down. The dogs bridge the gap between the them, running back and forth as they silently standoff.  Will has half a mind to pretend the man isn’t there and just continue on with what he was doing.

“Will,” Jack says, breaking the silence first, forcing Will to abandon his plan for ignorance.

Exhaling a breath Will drops the screwdriver back into the toolbag and shoves it into the shed.  Kicking the door shut, Will follows the pack up the drive toward Jack. “What are you doing here, Jack?”

“Can’t visit an old friend?”

“We haven’t spoken since my resignation after the trial, what do you want, Jack?”  Will spits as he moves to push past the man.

A hand on his shoulder stops him, and before he could admonish the action, an envelope is pushed into his hands.  Surprised, Will stills and stares down at the half-sized manila envelope, the words “Will Graham ℅ the FBI” printed neatly on the front.  Looking up, he gives Jack an inscrutable look and makes his way up the steps to the cabin. Ignoring the other man’s pleas he pulls open the door and proceeds to close it in Jack’s face.

Will throws himself against the door, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he regards the letter.  The teacup comes back together momentarily only to shatter again as the letter slips from his trembling hands.  He doesn’t need to open it to know who it is from, for there is only one person from whom the FBI would forward him a letter.

Taking a few deep breaths, Will tries to calm his rabbiting heart.  With a single action, Jack manages to break down all his locks and fling open every door.  Snatching the letter up from the floor, Will quickly retreats to the bedroom and pulls open the dresser drawer, burying the letter under neatly folded underthings, next to its counterpart.

He doesn’t want to think about Hannibal Lecter anymore.  He can’t. He knows that if he allows himself anymore, if he allows Hannibal’s words to filter into his brain, he would never be able to escape again.  Carefully, he pushes everything back into place, tidying up his mind palace as he closes the drawer.

With his locks haphazardly in place, Will retreats into the kitchen, pours himself a cup of coffee and sips the bitter liquid.  Minutes tick by as he settles his mind before pouring another cup and steeling himself to converse with Jack.

* * *

Will stares absently at the motel ceiling. The images of the crime scenes flash before his eyes, surrounding him as they threaten to consume him. He can still hear Jack's insistence that the a killer is targeting families, that lives are at stake, and how more families will die of Will doesn’t _do something_. He wants to laugh at the way Jack had attempted to appeal to his better nature. At the belief Jack had that Will actually gave a damn about those people. About those _families_. Perhaps because he has one now, a _family_. Molly and Walter. They are his are they not?

 _They are not_.

His family is long dead. His unborn child, ripped from the womb, his adopted daughter slaughtered, bled dry before his eyes, and his husband… his _husband_. His fucking husband.  What a farce that was, is.  He’s married to the devil, and the devil is now a kept man.

The only thing Jack has achieved so far, is to force Will to face his demons, to embrace that darkness he had kept at bay for so many years.  

The images of the dead surround him, taunt him.  Families slaughtered for a becoming. Will can relate to that feeling, of being stuck, of hating the reflection in the mirror, of wanting to _evolve_.  For so long he has tried to push those feelings down, to deny himself, to deny _Hannibal_.

There is no denying Hannibal now, this much he knows.  In choosing to read Hannibal’s words, to follow Jack through the door, he has chosen Hannibal.  Those locks he placed on those door are demolished, his memory palace ransacked. Hannibal now has free reign in his mind, and he can no longer hide in his go-nowhere-ing.  He has to admit to himself, to the Hannibal in his mind, that he was right all along. That Will was terrified of what he would become, but his time has come, and he can no longer sit, safe and secure with his _fake_ family.

Will’s focus is drawn to the image of the Leed’s dog, a thought suddenly filters through his head.  Jack has no idea what is about to hit him. Jack has no idea what price he is about to pay for dragging Will down this road, for destroying those locks.  There is no turning back.

Will smiles to himself as he closes his eyes, pushes the photographs aside and makes his way toward Palermo, toward the Norman Chapel, toward _Hannibal_.


End file.
